A sallow sun slowly crept out of the sky seeking the solace hidden behind the jagged edge of the horizon as darkness swallowed the sky in its failing wake.

With all light bled away and the deep cloak of night shrouding the world, a stirring began within the shadows that substituted for a soul. Night had come and the Great Night was fast approaching. There was much to do to prepare and no time left for resting. Bone pale fingers unlaced themselves, hands unfolded over a chest that did not rise and fall and the cravings of the Thirst became arouse. Eyes that darkly reflected the deepest pits of hell snapped open. Baron Stefan du Nuit was awake.

In the remains of ruined Beleriand cloaked in nightmare’s shadow, the ragged peaks and valleys between between Dorthonion to the north and Nan Dungortheb to the south was populated with all manner of monsters, including the fell offspring and decendents of dread Ungoliant who choked the gorge with their enshrouding webs. This was the Ered Gorgoroth, the Mountains of Terror.

At the center of this dismal dale squatted Castle du Nuit like one of Ungoliant’s own in mastery of its web. The silent palace was now astir, its ghastly ghostly residents were awakened from their slumber, stirring about in preparation for the Baron’s guests. The Great Night was approaching and all must be made ready.

Meanwhile, at the tall gothic gateway, beneath shadows cast from ominous and spluttering sconces set in deep craggy walls…

“I am a vampire.”
“Oh, sorry love, I wasn’t sure. Thought you had come as one of them Gothic types.” The large troll bouncer winked dramatically at his shorter, less tessellated and distinctly elfin companion.
“NO, I am a vampire. Really, see my teeth”
“Oh, very good. Nice and sharp-“ said the troll, grinning in what he hoped would be an attractive manner at the beautiful woman before him.
“Not unlike your wit” smirked the elf, winking at Woman of Secret Shadow through thick eyeliner, black face paint and brushing a long hand through a thick mane of white hair.
“No, I really am a vampire. I suggest you let me in.”
“Oh Oh Frankie, show her your cross” said the troll.
“Oi, you, your name’s not on the list SO PUSH OFF!” shouted the elf, who really was called Frank. For a moment he scowled, then burst into fits of laughter as he hung onto the troll, himself in convulsions at this very old joke.

Woman of Secret Shadow stepped back from the door, as a large and ungainly looking elf in a bulky dress and balrog wings brushed past her like an out of control thunderstorm.
“You know if I had silver coin for every time I have heard those two morons tell that joke tonight, I could pay for Denethor’s heating bill. Hog roast in a roll?” said Nindalf from behind the dull glow of his barbeque pit.
“What? No, I’m allergic to apple”
“I can do one without apple, and people would kill for my crackling.”
…….

Dubs stepped through the gothic archway in her scariest most intimidating costume ever:

Not many people were around yet, so she didn't know how frightening she looked, but she figured that green MC Hammer pants would be rather scary. Especially with her four-handed scimitar at her side, and a re-animated poodle skeleton on a leash.

She saw an elf in balrog wings disappear into the castle, and she smiled. Ahhh, a typical TORC Halloween party!

Stefan, now risen from his slumbers, stood in the upper tower window looking out on the web choked vally beneath the lofty heights. The Harvest Moon hung low in the sky casting shadows long and eerie across the dimly lit landscape.

The Great Night was approaching and Stephan could sense the activity going on below his personal chambers as the children of the night prepared the castle for the arrival of his guests. There would be a grand ball to celebrate the season and all the very best must be available for those invited to share the revels.

Stefan’s gaze was drawn towards the northern section of the valley and the tiny hamlet beyond the ridge of stony hills. His thirst had now fully awakened and the scent of living blood, the sound of vibrant heartbeats called out to him that it was time to feed.

Stefan stepped from the high parapet and out into the night air. Transformed his wings beat agains the darkness and carried him towards the unsuspecting village in the distance. The thirst was making its demands and it would be rudest of behavior to have the party’s host begin to feed upon his guests.

Two dark eyes fluttered open to grasp at the thin wisps of light that filtered into the room through skeletal branches and burgundy curtains. A scent carried on the air, one that called to waking the restless dead to dance beneath a ghostly moon to coyote songs and unearthly shrieks.

Taarisilme smiled, an expression which belied the blackness of his soul which could experience no real joy, only selfish pleasure and darkest desires. This year, he sensed another of his kind. This may prove interesting yet.

Silence cloaked him like a garment, and not a sound betrayed his movements - not the rustle of fabric nor the creak of ancient floor boards - nothing but by his will would make a sound.

Pale hands smoothed down his shirt, brushing away dust that fled before his touch. Another stroke of his hand revealed the smooth surface of a table on which he then placed a talisman, writing in the dust around it runes of power. A faint glow glinted from a crystal housed deep within the talisman, nestled outside of the natural confines of space and set where no mortal hand could reach.

A few steps took him across the room where he stood at the window, watching as the moonlight fought its way towards the ground through mysts and shadows that enveloped the courtyard. The moon was full. The night was good.

Wrapping his cloak about his shoulders, Taarisilme descended the staircase and walked with slow and measured determination through the grand entryway of the old mansion. From quite literally out of the woodwork issued spirits and daemons, called to do their master's bidding, now commanded to ready the mansion for his use once again.

It had been a long sleep this time. Ages had passed since he had last walked the earth. It was good to know once again the feel of cold autumn air as it bit and clawed at his lungs. It would be better once the heat of fresh blood flowed through him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, smelled at the faint trail of heat carried on the air, and then followed.

Gusts of wind, swirling about beneath the moon. Dust, mixed of rust and bone, carried on the air, billowing into clouds of ash. Slowly, as the moonlight watches, the clouds and swirls of dust coalesce, into spinning towers of shadow. Finally, within the chaos a strange pattern begins to evolve, taking a loose shape, till a shadowed, pale figure appears, lit through with the moonlight. Silently the wispy figure begins to move, gliding about, stopping next to the large mounds, covering ancient death, which spotted the barren, desolate plain. Quietly the figure touches the ground, where blood turned dry soil to mud. Sorrow and hatred suffuse everything, bringing death to life.

Finally, an invitation, brought by the wind, catches the attention of the figure. Slowly the ghost turns toward the south, then looks eastward. Around him the wind rises, dust surrounding him, as the breath of the night bears the pale moonlit figure towards the revels of darkness.

"The Mathter hath awoken. The Mathter hath awoken," he muttered to himself, like a man mad with fever. It had been a long time, but now the slaves took form again, their presence solidified by his will.

Kudu's gaze darted about the room, noting all the tasks that must be done to prepare.

When entered two ghostly figures, barely beyond shadows of dreams, he motioned them over, his arm waving violently. "The Mathter hath awoken. Come, come; all mutht be readied for him!"

The figures bowed and began to gather up the bedding and what few covers had been placed over the upholstered furniture. As they worked, great clouds of dust took to the air and caused Kudu to cough violently.

He moved to the other side of the room and righted a toppled chair, returning it to its legs. A vase had, at some point, been knocked to the floor and had shattered, leaving small pocks in the dust. Kudu shook his head and wrung his hands again. That vase had been one of Master's favorites, a relic from the Second Age.

Gathering up the pieces as best he could, he placed them in an otherwise unused bowl and hoped that no necessary spell or charm had been tied to...

"AAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!" Kudu wailed and practically flung himself across the room.

The oblivion daemon had frozen, hovering just over the layer of dust where Taarisilme had traced the runes. It slowly backed away from the table as Kudu came over.

"Mathter ith weak from tho long athleep. He will need thith protecthion until he hath been able to feed properly."

The daemon bowed its head and went on about its work, removing the dust from other surfaces and leaving the corner of the table untouched.

The two ghostly laundry maids had returned now and began to take down the curtains, causing another great cloud of dust to float about the room and another coughing fit to ensue.

Kudu muttered angry curses under his breath as he went over and opened a window to help vent the air. The wind slipped in and coiled about, carrying the dust with it. Kudu turned just in time to see it pick up and scatter to the floor the dust that held the runes. The talisman's glow faded slowly and vanished.

A massive jet-black shape wound its way along a narrow path, seeming to glide effortlessly along with only the muffled sound of huge hooves on soft, wet leaves to betray its presence. The air was damp and heavy, with the tall spires of unmoving pine adding to the sinister atmosphere of the evening. Then a low voice began to sing. Nearly drowned out by even the quiet hoofbeats, the song nevertheless carried a fair distance, and the mournful lyrics carried the melancholy of a past that could not be forgotten. The rider's form was concealed by a billowing black cloak, though at times the edge drifted up long enough to dimly expose an edge of red satin and lace, and the already fair skin of the face that peered from under the hood looked ghostly pale in the moonlight.

There were haunts in these woods, and the horse, while trusting of its rider, carried itself with caution. Neck arched, ears flitting back and forth, it was ready at a moment's notice to flee upon command. But the rider continued on, even as a shadow crossed the path, and the moonlight was blocked from above for a heartbeat. The song carried on, though a bit clearer now. The rider had no desire to be mistaken for a lonely wandering soul without a purpose. Although, came the feeling, on second thought, all but that last is true. There is a purpose.

That purpose was now faintly visible as they topped a ridge and paused, looking out over the top of the cathedral of trees. That set of spires in the distance was not a group of pines: it was a castle. Castle du Nuit, the night's destination.

It was calling, calling her blood, calling her madness.
It was nearly time, nearly.
-Yessssss
It came like a long hiss, like sand rubbing past a grave-stone, like a voice from past the veil.
Something stirred from the pile of wolf-bodies. A bandaged, bony hand emerged, followed by another and a pale, hollow-cheeked face, covered with blue tattoos.
-Sorry to derange you brothers and sisters, I've something to attend.
Alsandaira rose to a crouch and pulled her blood-covered lips in a maniacal grin. Her green sunken eyes glittered with a mad light. The effect was spoiled however when she began to bite her lower lip making it bleed again. She clawed at the mass of braids, feathers and beads that was supposed to be her hair, a parody of a girl fussing before her first date.
Samhain was approaching and the veil between the world of the living and the dead was already thinning. For one night the souls of the dead would walk on this earth again.
Soon, soon she would dance with her fallen comrades, with her love. It was nearly time. The veil would be thinnest at Castle de la Nuit. She felt it pulling.
She seemed to regain a semblance of sanity and hauled herself on her feet. Though she was dirty, starved and covered with cuts and bruises one could still guess by her proud, upright bearing the fearsome warrior and well-spoken bard she had once been. Once, before her clan had been decimated, before she had retreated behind madness and had begun to run with the wolves. She pulled her claymore from under the pile of warm bodies and began to dust off her clothes, a pair of ragged tartan breeches and tunic that had once been white. She had forgone shoes long ago, but now that the cold was returning she had bandaged her feet to keep her toes from freezing. A tarnished silver torc rested around her neck.
The wolf she had waken up while retrieving her weapon looked at her a bit owlishly and whimpered.
-No sister White-Neck, you can't go with me. This is something I must do alone. Return to sleep.
The she-wolf curled herself up again. Alsandaira picked up the remnants of a cloak from the den's floor and wrapped it around her. Then she had disappeared, a mad shadow running with the wind. She avoided the inhabited places like the wild animal she was, running tirelessly. Then at last she arrived at her destination.The dark menacing spires scared her, and something, her animal instinct or maybe her last scrap of sanity, screamed at her to turn around and run back to the warm and safe den. But she wrapped her ragged cloak a bit more tightly around her and began the ascension to the castle.

OOC Speaking French I've to say that Nuit is a female word. The correct name would be ' de la Nuit' not ' du Nuit' . Thought you might like to know.

Burning across the midnight sky, tearing between stars, clouds whip along with the rising, stormy wind. Gathering in the sky, building beneath the moon, towering pillars of gray vapor shake and spin in the chaotic air. Among the wispy shards of mist being summoned to the stormy dance race deathly ashes, caught up in the maelstrom, left behind in the path of another racing cloud, of shadow, darkness, and hatred.

Beneath, near the stunted trees covering the forlorn hills, only light breaths of breeze ruffle dying leaves. Above in the sky the storm builds, foreshadowing the coming revelries amongst the autumn forest. A strange gust, blasting out of the swirling clouds, slams down, trailing dust and mist, flying straight at the dark, moldering castle. With a rattling of windows and swirls of fallen leaves the wind strikes the castle. If anyone had braved the evening chill to gaze at the yellowed moon a tall, translucent figure would have been seen, trailing tattered robes and cloaks of shadow, riding the crest of wind down towards his destination.

Within the castle a black cat screeches and runs like lightning as a tall, pale figure straightens out of the inner wall. The speed of the wind had propelled the ancient shade on through the outer stones, through the first hallways, till what little ethereal substance he had left was able to slow him down upon striking another layer of hard rock. Slowly the ghost shakes out his flowing black robe, then, flinging his cloak about his shoulders and pulling up his cowl, leaving little of his white, elvish face visible, he starts off down the hall, his steps falling just above the dusty floor, looking for the coat room, and the first drinks of the night.

-----

OOC: To those familiar with the work, does anyone else think I'm channeling my inner "It was a dark and stormy night..."

A hooded lady walked under the gothic archway, with an air of confidence. Her scarlet satinskirts made swishing sounds as she walked. She carefully lifted her hem as she stepped over a puddle, then let it drop as she entered the hall. A servan stepped forward and offered to take her cloak. a delicate, white hand undid the clasp at her neck. The black velvet fell into the servant's waiting arms and he scurried off to hang the cloak for her.

She stood tall and slender in her satin gown. It was blood red and fit her well. It was deeply cut in the front, but not to a point of vulgarity and the wide straps went around the highpoint of her shoulders. The edges were trimed in black and silver lace, making a stark contrast against her pale, creamy white skin. Matching red satin gloves reached past her elbows. She wore no jewelry, and no make-up except for dark eye liner around her nearly-black, brown eyes and blood red lipstick. Her sleek, black hair was un adorned, except for a single silver comb, that held one half of her tresses swept back from her face. The rest of her raven colored locks were left loose and cascaded down her back, nearly hiding the deeply cut out, practically backless design of her gown.

She walked forward gracefully looking at each person in turn. Another servant hurried forward to offer her a drink. The poor man was shaking from the intensity of her gaze. She accepted a sweet white wine and moved to one side of the hall.

The Temptress watched from the shadows as other participants came within the eaves of the hostel that was open for this occasion. Slowly she licked her tongue across her lip and thought how delicious this night might just be.

Slowly she wraps her cloak about her and saunters up to the archway leading to the door. There she stops a moment longer to enjoy the smells upon the air. Yes this night would be fruitful and her many desires might just be met.

"Let the adventure begin!" she thought to herself.

Then she progressed on into the party staying near the walls and moving slowly, observing everything and everyone. Her dark black hair loose and long, her leather jumpsuit tight and deep blood red, perfect for the occasion. A whip in her hand and leather boots for riding upon her feet yet one would swear she makes no sound when she moves. Her footfall that as if no one were there. Her bright blue eyes almost hypnotizing to look into.

The last leg of the long journey passed quickly, and as the horse and rider rounded the last bend, they paused to gaze at the massive, forbidding fortress. Dark spires pierced the sky like ebony daggers, and the flickering lights just beyond the windows set off eerie shadows everywhere. Now for the entrance.

The black horse let out a loud, deep whinny and reared up, forelegs striking out at the night. The rider clung effortlessly to its back as they suddenly charged down the hill with the thundering roll of hoofbeats no longer silenced by a soft path. The thunder turned to a muted clatter as unshod hooves beat upon the paved courtyard, and then to silence as the massive animal halted at the gate and the rider dismounted with a flourish and turned to the guard.

"Which way are the stables?" came a soft feminine voice. The guard pointed off to the side, and immediately the horse trotted off in that direction. The cloaked figure entered the gateway at the guard's direction, and proceeded through several doorways before entering the main hall. All manner of guests were present, some lurking in the shadows, others mingling more socially. Off to one side she spied a flock of cloaks hanging in a corner, and she made her way over to it, finding an empty peg for her own cloak. No longer hidden by the flowing folds of the black cape, the guest could be clearly seen. Slender and pale, with long, dusky black hair, she wore a flowing black skirt with a blood-red velvet overskirt and a black sash and corset. A pointed elvish ear escaped from beneath the dark curls, and her graceful movements confirmed her ancestry.

Over at a long table lavish with sweets and pastries of all sorts, she chose several treats and then retreated to a quiet corner to observe the goings-on. She saw several vampires, but couldn't be sure whether they were genuine or merely a facade for the festivities. She was sure of one thing, none of them was the Baron. He would be immediately recognizable, she knew intuitively. When will he arrive, I wonder?

The wind chilled straight to the bone on this night, no cloak or scarf could keep it at bay. Though the moon lent enough light to see by, she still clutched the lantern tight.

Those of her village held dire tidings of such nights, this night in particular. She had always dismissed such as old wives' tales and silly superstitions, but even she could not quell the rumblings of fear that tugged at the edges of her mind. Even if she did not believe such tales, the shadows at night played cruel games with her imagination, bringing to life in twisted, grasping hands the bare branches of trees.

Why was she out on such a night as this? Ah! What errand are all buxom young women about on such nights but to meet a handsome young lover unbeknownst to friends or kin. For such as he, young women brave the cruel nights and dare to defy family and convention.

Who he is matters not for in the end all such lovers are the same. Sweet words whispered by secret shadows but gone again in the day.

Her boot caught under a branch and sent her tumbling to the ground, her fall at least broken by the soft bed of autumn leaves, but the lantern clattered away and its light was lost.

"Oh! Curse and fiddlesticks, a pox on roots and fire alike!" She struggled up and brushed the leaves from her cloak before fetching the dark lantern. She had no flint to kindle a spark and would now be forced to walk by moonlight the rest of her way, be that back to her home or ahead to her lover's arms.

She took a few steps before deciding that perhaps she ought to sit and rest a moment from such a tumble, as her ankle was quite sore. Finding a somewhat decent spot to sit, she did so, wrapping her cloak tight about her body and looking up to the moon. She dismissed the shadow that flitted across the black sky as another trick of her imagination and looked down at the ground instead.

Looking down at a tall glass of dark red refreshment the elvish ghost's concentration is broken, with an effect similar to a cheap, lurid vase, mass produced to be sold in sleazy tourist shops to people who are just looking for something to give their friends who they really don't like, is thrown against a cobble stone in front of a team of horses, by three bats winging through the great hall right over his head. Irritation is not the term to be using for what followed next. Let us just say that the three offending bats were chased around the room by a large and violent shadow till they were finally able to find an open window and evade their pursuer, all the while laughing wildly. Giving up the chase the ghost, now thoroughly thirsty and aggravated, returns to the drink table, and after much more concentration hardens his substance enough to start drinking the delectable beverage provided by the host.

Sipping the wine, which, though he tasted it, proceeded to merely drip down to the floor like blood dripping down from a hanging corpse, the ghost looks about the room. A few other guests have arrived, including several impressively dressed women. A quiet sigh can be heard beneath the black hood as the elf thinks back on what he lost when he died. At least, for one night, he is free.

Seeing one of the women coming towards the drinks the elvish ghost takes another sip, leaves another puddle, and starts to stalk the approaching victim.

Chill breezes slashed the night and Stefan rode them, enjoying the freedom of gliding through the darkness. The warmth of liquid life sang out to him and he followed to where the scent came thickest. Wings of death carried him onward toward his as yet unchosen victim.

Thin clouds hovered over a tiny hamlet in the valley, but they offered no protection from what was coming from the sky. The Great Night was celebrated there as it was in many villages throughout the valley. Tonight what their unwitting revels truly represented would be revealed. Tonight would be the last for some. Tonight would change the world for many.

(OOC: Back after minor altercation. Above post now listed as "guest" is mine. Everything's fine, move along move alo.. oh wait, no everything isn't fine. There's a young, helpless victim out on this, of all nights! Oh dear or dear whatever shall I do? *swoons into a faint*